


Conversations Between Peers

by language_escapes



Category: Mycroft Holmes Series - Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Anna Waterhouse, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:15:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24473398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/language_escapes/pseuds/language_escapes
Summary: John Watson and Cyrus Douglas have some things in common. (A 5+1 Fic)
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 17
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Summer 2020





	Conversations Between Peers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thetimemoves (WriteOut)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteOut/gifts).



> The idea of John Watson and Cyrus Douglas is one that deserves more time and words than I could possibly put together right now, but I do hope to return to this concept at a later date and flesh out some of these concepts more.
> 
> ACD said "timeline? what timeline?" and therefore I felt comfortable doing the same. If he can't keep track of his dates, I shan't even try.
> 
> Many, many thanks to my beta, sanguinity, and to the mods of Holmestice, who were very generous with me, as always.

My acquaintance with Mr Cyrus Douglas, which spanned many years, began rather inauspiciously, with my mistaking him as Mycroft Holmes’ valet. I was grateful that I did not intimate as much to the man himself, but instead mentioned it in passing to Holmes after they had left. He laughed uproariously at the notion and corrected me – Douglas was not a valet, but rather Mycroft Holmes’ greatest and dearest friend. I was, naturally, mortified. Holmes told me airily it was a mistake Mycroft and Douglas encouraged and, indeed, nurtured. 

“It is a mistake that many make, Watson,” Holmes said, waving a hand at my distress, “and one that has saved both of their lives many times.”

I could not imagine what sort of deadly incidents Mycroft Holmes could stumble into as a civil servant, where having an unassuming man posing as a valet would be useful, but then, I had only learned of Mycroft Holmes’ existence a week ago. Perhaps the rooms of Whitehall were more deadly than I had presumed.

At any rate, that was my first encounter with Mr Cyrus Douglas; we exchanged not a word and I made an incredibly foolish error my understanding of him.

I did not see him again, nor think of him, for two years.

******  
“John?”

I looked up from the stack of papers I was going through on my desk. Mary stood in the entrance to my study, smiling gently. Her blond hair was down for the evening, and I imagined she would be going to bed soon.

“Yes, Mary?” I asked, moving a letter from a patient over into a different pile. My organization system was still in development.

“There is a man here to see you.”

I tensed. “Is it Holmes?” I asked tersely.

I was currently not speaking to Holmes. Three weeks ago he had played a cruel trick on me, convincing me he was dying in the course of a case. He claimed it was necessary to catch the villain, but I could see no reason to let me suffer in that way. The first week I had avoided him, I honestly don’t believe he noticed. By the second week, he’d begun sending telegrams inviting me to 221B, which I steadfastly ignored. This week he’d graduated to arriving at my practice; I’d instructed the servants to send him away. It would not surprise me if he’d decided to arrive at my home now.

Mary shook her head. “No, dear, it’s -”

“Are you certain? He has been known to disguise himself,” I said sharply, thinking of all the times he’d mocked my inability to see through his disguises.

Mary smiled again. She was lovely, and I pulled my shoulders from my ears. She didn’t deserve my snapping at her. “It isn’t Mr Holmes, John. He says his name is Cyrus Douglas.”

It took me a moment to place the name. When I did, I raised my eyebrows in surprise. I could not think of a reason why the close and personal friend of Mycroft Holmes would come to see me. After the business with the Greek interpreter, Holmes had not been engaged by his brother again, and so I’d never actually formally met Mr Douglas. And yet, apparently he was upon my doorstep, or more accurately, given Mary’s excellent hospitality, waiting in my hall.

“I see,” I said, for lack of anything better to say. “Very well. I’ll see him in here. Don’t wait up, Mary; I haven’t the slightest idea of what he may want.”

She came over and kissed the top of my head before leaving. I heard her talking softly in the hall, and then Mr Cyrus Douglas walked through my study door. 

He was a tall man and well built, though lean. His dark skin was interrupted with lines that gave hints to his age; I took him to be older than myself, certainly, though I began to wonder if perhaps he was older even than Mycroft Holmes. His dark hair was flecked with gray and white. He wore a dark suit, and held his hat in his hand.

“Good evening, Dr Watson. Thank you for seeing me,” he said in a deep voice. I stood and gestured for him to sit in one of the armchairs by the fire.

“Of course, Mr Douglas, though I confess a certain amount of surprise to see you here. You and I have not yet had the opportunity to become acquainted, not truly.”

He smiled, his face crinkling and revealing the origin of his facial lines. “I’m afraid we haven’t, though Holmes has told me a great deal about you.”

I started, and then realized he meant _his_ Holmes, not mine. Laughing a little, I said, “I believe this may get confusing rather quickly, Mr Douglas, if we both refer to our respective Holmeses as Holmes.”

He laughed, too. “I see your point. _Mycroft_ Holmes has told me a great deal about you. He says you’ve made quite a difference in his brother, and I see his point. Sherlock Holmes is much more aware of an individual’s needs and emotions than when I first met him. Truly, he’s just more aware of other people.”

“Then he must have been quite devoid of compassion when you met him, because Sherlock Holmes still has little regard for the emotions of others,” I said acidly. Taking a breath, I decided to move away from the topic. Sherlock Holmes was not here, and Cyrus Douglas was. “What can I do for you, Mr Douglas?” 

Douglas leaned back in the armchair, crossing his legs. “In truth, I am here to talk to you about Sherlock Holmes.”

I couldn’t help my automatic scowl. “I’m afraid, then, your visit here was purposeless. I’m not particularly interested in discussing Sherlock Holmes.”

“I quite understand. It is exhausting, isn’t it, everything always being about your friend?”

I walked over to the mantle, where I kept a tantalus and gasogene. I raised an eyebrow at Douglas, and he nodded. As I began putting the drinks together, I replied. “Not at all. I prefer Holmes being in the spotlight over myself.”

“I’m not speaking of the spotlight, as you say, Dr Watson. I’m talking about in your personal relationship.”

I paused in making the drinks. Not looking at Douglas, I said, “Are you here to lecture me, then, Mr Douglas?”

“Not at all,” he said placidly. “I’m here to commend you for standing your ground.”

When I turned around, his drink in my hand, he was smiling at me, a twinkle in his eyes. I handed him his drink, sitting down across from him. “I admit, that wasn’t what I expected to hear.”

Douglas contemplated his drink for a long moment, then set it down on the end table. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cigar case. “Can I interest you in a cigar, Dr Watson?”

“Certainly,” I said, selecting one from the case. We went through the ritual of lighting them and sat quietly for a while, just smoking and drinking. It was relaxing, far more relaxing than almost any moment of my life for the past three weeks. 

“I’m assuming you know what he did,” I finally said. 

Douglas nodded. “He has been to see Mycroft Holmes several times this week. I have heard about the situation. At length.”

I winced. “I apologize for that.”

“It is no trouble. I am quite familiar with Sherlock Holmes and his tendencies.”

I was curious about that – what exactly was his history with the Holmeses? – but was unsure if my questioning would be welcome. “Nonetheless.”

Douglas studied his glass. “He is quite put out that you won’t even allow him to apologize.”

I snorted. “An apology from Holmes is rarely a true one. ‘My dear Watson, if only you _understood_ what I had to do, let me just explain and then _reason_ will make clear to you why I was right to do what I did!’ I have heard one too many apologies like that, Mr Douglas. He can be as put out as he’d like.”

“Ah, yes, the classic Holmes apology,” Douglas sighed, looking up at the ceiling. He shifted in his seat and when he next spoke, he used a deeper voice. “‘Douglas, don’t you understand? Isn’t it obvious?’ Well, no, Holmes, it isn’t. ‘Well, if you just think on it!’” He shifted again and gave me an amused smile. “How much time we would save if our Holmeses would just tell us what they mean and what they need from us.”

“Then I take it this is not just a problem with the younger Holmes,” I said.

“No, not exclusively. My Holmes has gotten better over the years. He is less apt to walk all over me in the name of the greater good, however he is defining it at that moment. He still does, occasionally, but he’s quicker to realize he’s wrong. He is quicker to apologize. Still in his own way, but it is a sight better than when we began.”

I contemplated my drink, considering. I knew next to nothing about Cyrus Douglas and his history with Mycroft Holmes, but he had the ease of a man long accustomed to the foibles and quirks of their friend. They had clearly been together for years. I thought my own friendship with Holmes a well-worn routine at this point, after eight years, but there were clearly some things that came with even greater time and effort.

“How did you encourage Mycroft Holmes to reach this point?” I asked. “I presume he did not reach this more enlightened stance on his own.”

Douglas snorted. “No, indeed he did not, Dr Watson. When I first met Mycroft Holmes he was an arrogant young man, utterly certain of his own rightness, utterly sure of what justice was, and completely unable to fathom that perhaps others, impacted by his concept of rightness and justice, might have opinions on the matter. A good man, but an ignorant one.”

That description could well apply to Sherlock Holmes, in my mind. “What changed?”

There was a long pause before Douglas answered. He stared as his cigar and cleared his throat. “Some of that is not my story to tell, and so I will not tell it. For us, however, I think things changed when we found the dead boy.” He paused again, his face tightening, and I could tell what he was about to tell me was a painful memory.

I hastened to stop him. “You need not tell me, Mr Douglas. There are some things that are personal and do not need to be told. It is enough to know that he did change.”

Douglas nodded. “Thank you. What I will tell you, though, is that it took standing my ground and refusing to budge to make Mycroft Holmes stop and really look at me. After that moment, with the boy, he… I will not say he changed irrevocably and immediately, but he made more effort. He was more willing to listen to me, and to understand that I, too, had thoughts on things, and perhaps my experiences were different than his, but they were not less valid.”

The look he gave me was wry, inviting me into his small joke. I laughed a little, and stood to refill our glasses.

When I sat down again, I asked him frankly, “Then you advise I continue as I am doing?”

“I advise… that you stand firm, but you make him hear you. From what I understand, he is baffled as to what he has done to earn your enmity.” He held up a forestalling hand, predicting correctly that I was about to object. “I did not say his bafflement was accurate, merely that he is feeling it. You have made clear that you are angry. Perhaps it is time you made clear, to him, _why_ you’re angry and, more importantly, what he can do to apologize.”

It was a reasonable and intelligent suggestion. “Very well, Mr Douglas,” I said, smiling. “I will do just that. Now, can I interest you in some brandy? I think it will pair nicely with this excellent cigar.”

Douglas grinned and held out his glass for me to take. “Why yes, Dr Watson, I think I can find some interest.”

I saw Holmes a few days later, when we met upon the way to my practice. I say met – I believe he was lying in wait for me, since he continued to be sent away from my practice by my servants. We spoke but briefly, but I laid out exactly what I expected from him in order for relations between us to resume. To my surprise, he listened intently and then went away. A few days later he was at my doorstep, a proper apology on his lips. It was a start.

******  
The next time I saw Douglas was at Holmes’ funeral. We did not speak, and I barely saw him, but he gave me a nod as I left the church. 

Somehow, that nod brought me comfort.

******  
He was at Mary’s funeral as well.

I stood alone after the funeral, allowing the rest of the mourners, few that they were, to leave. Mary had requested the most minimal of services, having tired of mourning and all its trappings in her lifetime, and I would not deny her any of those requests. I looked down at her coffin, clenching my jaw in an attempt to stop myself from crying. The service had been beautiful and, in a way, comforting, but it did not bring back my Mary. And it reminded me, as if I could ever forget, that Holmes was gone as well.

I found myself very alone in the world. The pain of it made my heart clench.

“Dr Watson.”

“Mr Douglas,” I replied, as Douglas came to stand next to me. He stood looking down at the coffin, kindly granting me a sense of privacy by not looking at me.

“I only met her the one time, but your wife was a lovely person.”

The grief rose in my throat, but I managed to tamp it down. “She was,” I agreed thickly.

There was a pause, and then Douglas said, “She reminded me a bit of my own wife.”

“Your wife…?” I asked, surprised. Holmes had never mentioned Douglas having a wife, though I couldn’t truthfully think of a reason why he’d ever had cause to mention it. Douglas had rarely been a topic of conversation.

“Yes. I was only married for a few years when my wife died, along with my child and my parents.”

I restrained my impulse to look at him in horror. The idea of losing so many loved ones at once, and feeling the weight of all that grief, seemed utterly overwhelming. But Douglas simply stood quietly next to me, his face sad but calm.

But he still stood there. The grief had not killed him.

I could not help but understand his meaning.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.

“As I am for yours,” he replied.

We stood there for a while longer. When I felt ready, I cleared my throat. “Thank you, Mr Douglas.”

He nodded. “You’re welcome, Dr Watson.”

I considered Mary’s coffin, and made up my mind. I had no desire to be alone right now. “Would you like to come back to my flat with me, Mr Douglas? I still have some of that excellent brandy.”

“I have brought some excellent cigars,” he said, patting his jacket pocket.

“Well then,” I said, talking through the lump in my throat, “shall we?”

******  
After Holmes’ return, I fully expected Douglas’ visit. I wasn’t sure when he would come, but I knew he would. After the trick played on, I assumed, both of us by our respective Holmeses, it was only natural he would seek me out. And as he knew where I lived, and I did not know his address, then I knew he would come to me. I think he appreciated the opportunity to talk to maybe the one other person in the world who had stood in a similar place as he. We rarely sought each other out, but the times we came together, I liked to believe we found mutual comfort in our easy camaraderie. We understood each other as only two friends of Holmeses could.

When he came to my door, I invited him in. We went to my study, sat in our respective armchairs, and drank and smoked in silence for quite a while.

“I will forgive him, you know,” I said after a time. “For making a decision that affected me without my input.”

Douglas shrugged eloquently. “As I will eventually forgive Mycroft Holmes for hiding the truth from me."

I had already finished my first glass and went to pour myself more; Douglas was still nursing his. “Initially I thought the years away aided him in forgetting what a real apology is,” I said, sitting back down.

Douglas snorted. “At least he has an excuse.” He considered for a moment, then visibly softened. “Though I think Mycroft was just terrified for Sherlock. Which I understand. That boy has always moved too fast for Mycroft’s comfort. Mycroft will come to his senses in another day or two, once the shock of it all has worn off.”

I nodded sympathetically. “He was in a hard position,” I agreed. “At any rate, I only _initially_ thought Sherlock had forgotten how to apologize in his time abroad. I am now thinking perhaps that is not the case. Look at this telegram he sent me today.” I reached into my pocket and withdrew the missive, handing it to Douglas, who read it with interest. I watched as his eyebrows crawled up his forehead.

“He’s… asking?... if you’d be willing to see him?” Douglas sounded dumbfounded.

I took a sip. “Indeed. It may be too much to hope, but I suppose it is possible that he is ready to make a genuine apology. He hasn’t resorted to accosting me in the street this time, at least.”

“That is… quite the change,” Douglas admitted. He paused, looked as his glass, and then raised it. “To standing firm,” he said.

I smiled and raised my glass in turn.

******  
“Holmes,” I said idly one dreary Wednesday afternoon, “do you happen to know where Mr Cyrus Douglas lives?”

Holmes looked up from his scrapbooking, which he had been attending to for the past several hours. We were between cases at the moment, which was wearing on Holmes’ nerves and my patience. The idea of spending yet another day sitting in my armchair, reading a yellowback novel, and listening to Holmes grumble was not at all appealing to me. Thurston was out of town, Stamford was a bit of a bore, and none of my other friends seemed particularly interesting. And so I struck upon the idea of visiting with Douglas.

After a moment, Holmes said, “I’m afraid I don’t know his where his private residence is, old boy.” I must have had a disappointed look on my face at his words, for he raised a forestalling hand. “But as it happens, you’d be more likely to find him at his school right now.”

“His school?”

Holmes gave me an enigmatic look. “Yes. You’ll find it in Devil’s Acre,” he said, providing no more information and immediately turning his attention back to his scrapbooks.

I blinked at the idea of a school in Devil’s Acre, but decided I was suitably intrigued and wished to discover more myself, from Douglas, rather than from Holmes. “Do you have a street for me?” I asked.

“Old Pye. Look for Nickolus House.”

I stood up, setting my book on an end table, and went to gather my coat and hat. 

“Oh, and Watson?” I stopped and turn to look at Holmes. His enigmatic look had graduated to sly. “Might I suggest stopping at Regent Tobaccos on your way? I happen to know they carry Douglas’ favourite cigars.”

I nodded my thanks, put my hat on my head, and headed out.

I stopped at Regent Tobaccos as suggested, and the proprietors seemed to know Douglas quite well, recommending to me a box of Punch Habana cigars. I purchased them and continued my journey to Devil’s Acre. I had only ever been to the slum, though now much improved, a handful of times in my life, mostly with Holmes. He had never before indicated that he knew anyone associated with the area, though that was hardly surprising. I sat in my carriage, wryly amused to know that, should I have pressed Holmes, he would have given me a look of confusion and said, “But you never asked!”

The carriage dropped me in front of Nickolus House, a plain looking building that looked somewhat incongruous next to the Peabody buildings. Then again, the entire neighborhood was such – a mix of now stolidly middle-class buildings next to others that were clearly part of the former slums and had dreams of doing better. The area had improved over the past twenty years, but it was still somewhat rundown.

Unsure of how to proceed, I walked up and knocked on the door. After a moment, it was opened – not, I was surprised to see, by a formal butler or housekeeper, but instead by a young boy, perhaps eleven-years-old. He was dressed neatly, but he still carried the air of a street boy, one of Wiggins ilk. He straightened upon laying eyes on me and said, in an accent barely above the roughest Cockney, “Good afternoon, sir. Hows can I be helping you today?”

Utterly baffled and further intrigued, I took the hat off my head and said, “I was wondering if I might speak to Mr Cyrus Douglas? I am given to understand he is here this afternoon.”

The boy gave me a suspicious look. “Why you be wanting him?”

“There, now, Billy,” a soothing voice said. The door opened wider, revealing an old man with kind eyes. “It is not the job of the page to interrogate the guests. You simply ask for their card, which you then deliver to the person in question,” he lectured, waiting until the boy nodded before lifting his eyes to me. “You wished to see Mr Douglas?”

“Yes,” I said, and then added, “if he isn’t busy.”

“Mr Douglas is always busy,” the man said, “but never too busy to receive a gentleman.”

He disappeared before I could correct him, leaving me alone with Billy the aspiring page. The boy shifted uncomfortably.

“Those clothes are a bit itchy, aren’t they?” I said sympathetically.

The boy looked at me, surprised. “Real itchy,” he said emphatically. He then stopped himself, and clarified, “But I am grateful for the chance to be here at Nickolus House.” He said it as if it had been drilled into him, but I could sense genuine pleasure behind the rote memorization.

Before we could talk further, Douglas appeared, hurrying down the stairs. I smiled at him and outstretched my hand, which he shook quickly.

“Dr Watson! What a surprise to see you here. Has something happened?”

It was my turn to feel surprised. “No, not at all. Why?”

Douglas’ frantic energy eased at my words. “I assumed,” he said, “that you were here because there was an issue with Sherlock. Why else would you come?”

“It is a warm day, and I have nothing pressing going on,” I said, shifting, suddenly unsure of my welcome. “I thought, perhaps, we might sit together, and smoke some cigars.”

A smile bloomed across Douglas’ face, the brightest one I had ever seen. “And drink some excellent brandy?”

“Well. Only if you have it,” I said, smiling back.

“If you’ll come up to my office, Dr Watson, I’m sure I can find something. I’m afraid I don’t have brandy here at Nickolus House, but I do have a very nice Favraud Armagnac, of an excellent vintage,” he said, turning and escorting me down the hall. I saw a drawing room and a classroom as we walked, the latter of which contained about fifteen boys and girls, their heads bent over desks.

“That sounds wonderful,” I said, “and then you _must_ tell me all about this House of yours.”

Douglas smiled once more, his eyes kind. “I would be delighted, Dr Watson. Absolutely delighted.”


End file.
